the jacket (the star-rover)-第2章

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Deanship　of　the　College　of　Agriculture　in　that　universityI；　the

star…rover；　the　red…blooded　adventurer；　the　vagabondish　Cain　of　the

centuries；　the　militant　priest　of　remotest　times；　the　moon…dreaming

poet　of　ages　forgotten　and　to…day　unrecorded　in　man's　history　of

man！



And　here　I　am；　my　hands　dyed　red　in　Murderers'　Row；　in　the　State

Prison　of　Folsom；　awaiting　the　day　decreed　by　the　machinery　of　state

when　the　servants　of　the　state　will　lead　me　away　into　what　they

fondly　believe　is　the　darkthe　dark　they　fear；　the　dark　that　gives

them　fearsome　and　superstitious　fancies；　the　dark　that　drives　them；

drivelling　and　yammering；　to　the　altars　of　their　fear…created；

anthropomorphic　gods。



No；　I　shall　never　be　Dean　of　any　college　of　agriculture。　　And　yet　I

knew　agriculture。　　It　was　my　profession。　　I　was　born　to　it；　reared

to　it；　trained　to　it；　and　I　was　a　master　of　it。　　It　was　my　genius。

I　can　pick　the　high…percentage　butter…fat　cow　with　my　eye　and　let

the　Babcock　Tester　prove　the　wisdom　of　my　eye。　　I　can　look；　not　at

land；　but　at　landscape；　and　pronounce　the　virtues　and　the

shortcomings　of　the　soil。　　Litmus　paper　is　not　necessary　when　I

determine　a　soil　to　be　acid　or　alkali。　　I　repeat；　farm…husbandry；　in

its　highest　scientific　terms；　was　my　genius；　and　is　my　genius。　　And

yet　the　state；　which　includes　all　the　citizens　of　the　state；

believes　that　it　can　blot　out　this　wisdom　of　mine　in　the　final　dark

by　means　of　a　rope　about　my　neck　and　the　abruptive　jerk　of

gravitationthis　wisdom　of　mine　that　was　incubated　through　the

millenniums；　and　that　was　well…hatched　ere　the　farmed　fields　of　Troy

were　ever　pastured　by　the　flocks　of　nomad　shepherds！



Corn？　　Who　else　knows　corn？　　There　is　my　demonstration　at　Wistar；

whereby　I　increased　the　annual　corn…yield　of　every　county　in　Iowa　by

half　a　million　dollars。　　This　is　history。　　Many　a　farmer；　riding　in

his　motor…car　to…day；　knows　who　made　possible　that　motor…car。　　Many

a　sweet…bosomed　girl　and　bright…browed　boy；　poring　over　high…school

text…books；　little　dreams　that　I　made　that　higher　education　possible

by　my　corn　demonstration　at　Wistar。



And　farm　management！　　I　know　the　waste　of　superfluous　motion　without

studying　a　moving　picture　record　of　it；　whether　it　be　farm　or　farm…

hand；　the　layout　of　buildings　or　the　layout　of　the　farm…hands'

labour。　　There　is　my　handbook　and　tables　on　the　subject。　　Beyond　the

shadow　of　any　doubt；　at　this　present　moment；　a　hundred　thousand

farmers　are　knotting　their　brows　over　its　spread　pages　ere　they　tap

out　their　final　pipe　and　go　to　bed。　　And　yet；　so　far　was　I　beyond　my

tables；　that　all　I　needed　was　a　mere　look　at　a　man　to　know　his

predispositions；　his　co…ordinations；　and　the　index　fraction　of　his

motion…wastage。



And　here　I　must　close　this　first　chapter　of　my　narrative。　　It　is

nine　o'clock；　and　in　Murderers'　Row　that　means　lights　out。　　Even

now；　I　hear　the　soft　tread　of　the　gum…shoed　guard　as　he　comes　to

censure　me　for　my　coal…oil　lamp　still　burning。　　As　if　the　mere

living　could　censure　the　doomed　to　die！







CHAPTER　II







I　am　Darrell　Standing。　　They　are　going　to　take　me　out　and　hang　me

pretty　soon。　　In　the　meantime　I　say　my　say；　and　write　in　these　pages

of　the　other　times　and　places。



After　my　sentence；　I　came　to　spend　the　rest　of　my　〃natural　life〃　in

the　prison　of　San　Quentin。　　I　proved　incorrigible。　　An　incorrigible

is　a　terrible　human　beingat　least　such　is　the　connotation　of

〃incorrigible〃　in　prison　psychology。　　I　became　an　incorrigible

because　I　abhorred　waste　motion。　　The　prison；　like　all　prisons；　was

a　scandal　and　an　affront　of　waste　motion。　　They　put　me　in　the　jute…

mill。　　The　criminality　of　wastefulness　irritated　me。　　Why　should　it

not？　　Elimination　of　waste　motion　was　my　speciality。　　Before　the

invention　of　steam　or　steam…driven　looms　three　thousand　years

before；　I　had　rotted　in　prison　in　old　Babylon；　and；　trust　me；　I

speak　the　truth　when　I　say　that　in　that　ancient　day　we　prisoners

wove　more　efficiently　on　hand…looms　than　did　the　prisoners　in　the

steam…powered　loom…rooms　of　San　Quentin。



The　crime　of　waste　was　abhorrent。　　I　rebelled。　　I　tried　to　show　the

guards　a　score　or　so　of　more　efficient　ways。　　I　was　reported。　　I　was

given　the　dungeon　and　the　starvation　of　light　and　food。　　I　emerged

and　tried　to　work　in　the　chaos　of　inefficiency　of　the　loom…rooms。　　I

rebelled。　　I　was　given　the　dungeon；　plus　the　strait…jacket。　　I　was

spread…eagled；　and　thumbed…up；　and　privily　beaten　by　the　stupid

guards　whose　totality　of　intelligence　was　only　just　sufficient　to

show　them　that　I　was　different　from　them　and　not　so　stupid。



Two　years　of　this　witless　persecution　I　endured。　　It　is　terrible　for

a　man　to　be　tied　down　and　gnawed　by　rats。　　The　stupid　brutes　of

guards　were　rats；　and　they　gnawed　the　intelligence　of　me；　gnawed　all

the　fine　nerves　of　the　quick　of　me　and　of　the　consciousness　of　me。

And　I；　who　in　my　past　have　been　a　most　valiant　fighter；　in　this

present　life　was　no　fighter　at　all。　　I　was　a　farmer；　an

agriculturist；　a　desk…tied　professor；　a　laboratory　slave；　interested

only　in　the　soil　and　the　increase　of　the　productiveness　of　the　soil。



I　fought　in　the　Philippines　because　it　was　the　tradition　of　the

Standings　to　fight。　　I　had　no　aptitude　for　fighting。　　It　was　all　too

ridiculous；　the　introducing　of　disruptive　foreign　substances　into

the　bodies　of　little　black　men…folk。　　It　was　laughable　to　behold

Science　prostituting　all　the　might　of　its　achievement　and　the　wit　of

its　inventors　to　the　violent　introducing　of　foreign　substances　into

the　bodies　of　black　folk。



As　I　say；　in　obedience　to　the　tradition　of　the　Standings　I　went　to

war　and　found　that　I　had　no　aptitude　for　war。　　So　did　my　officers

find　me　out；　because　they　made　me　a　quartermaster's　clerk；　and　as　a

clerk；　at　a　desk；　I　fought　through　the　Spanish…American　War。



So　it　was　not　because　I　was　a　fighter；　but　because　I　was　a　thinker；

that　I　was　enraged　by　the　motion…wastage　of　the　loom…rooms　and　was

persecuted　by　the　guards　into　becoming　an　〃incorrigible。〃　　One's

brain　worked　and　I　was　punished　for　its　working。　　As　I　told　Warden

Atherton；　when　my　incorrigibility　had　become　so　notorious　that　he

had　me　in　on　the　carpet　in　his　private　office　to　plead　with　me；　as　I

told　him　then：



〃It　is　so　absurd；　my　dear　Warden；　to　think　that　your　rat…throttlers

of　guards　can　shake　out　of　my　brain　the　things　that　are　clear　and

definite　in　my　brain。　　The　whole　organization　of　this　prison　is

stupid。　　You　are　a　politician。　　You　can　weave　the　political　pull　of

San　Francisco　saloon…men　and　ward　heelers　into　a　position　of　graft

such　as　this　one　you　occupy；　but　you　can't　weave　jute。　　Your　loom…

rooms　are　fifty　years　behind　the　times。　。　。　。〃



But　why　continue　the　tirade？for　tirade　it　was。　　I　showed　him　what

a　fool　he　was；　and　as　a　result　he　decided　that　I　was　a　hopeless

incorrigible。



Give　a　dog　a　bad　nameyou　know　the　saw。　　Very　well。　　Warden

Atherton　gave　the　final　sanction　to　the　badness　of　my　name。　　I　was

fair　game。　　More　than　one　convict's　dereliction　was　shunted　off　on

me；　and　was　paid　for　by　me　in　the　dungeon　on　bread　and　water；　or　in

being　triced　up　by　the　thumbs　on　my　tip…toes　for　long　hours；　each

hour　of　which　was　longer　than　any　life　I　have　ever　lived。



Intelligent　men　are　cruel。　　Stupid　men　are　monstrously　cruel。　　The

guards　and　the　men　over　me；　from　the　Warden　down；　were　stupid

monsters。　　Listen；　and　you　shall　learn　what　they　did　to　me。　　There

was　a　poet　in　the　prison；　a　convict；　a　weak…chinned；　broad…browed；

degenerate　poet。　　He　was　a　forger。　　He　was　a　coward。　　He　was　a

snitcher。　　He　was　a　stoolstrange　words　for　a　professor　of

agronomics　to　use　in　writing；　but　a　professor　of　agronomics　may　well

learn　strange　words　when　pent　in　prison　for　the　term　of　his　natural

life。



This　poet…forger's　name　was　Cecil　Winwood。　　He　had　had　prior

convictions；　and　yet；　because　he　was　a　snivelling　cur　of　a　yellow

dog；　his　last